The Confines Of Our Hearts
by SashaLikaMusica
Summary: Since she was six years old, Dani has suffered from severe abuse and neglect. When she moves to New York City at the age of twenty-two, with no home and nothing left, she's hardly even hoping for a future. But when Santana, Kurt, and Rachel find her on the streets and take her home, she slowly comes to realize that her life might just be worth living. Dantana. Trigger warnings.
1. Chapter 1

**So for all you Dantana lovers out there, I've created this story. I feel like Dani doesn't get quite as much credit as she deserves, so I'm going to give her some here. This first chapter is just sort of an introduction to her history, and while I know it moves kind of fast and is somewhat short, I needed to work some of her past in before the real story can begin. It won't all be angst, but there's going to be more plot than usual in this one.**

**Now obviously, this is M-rated, so expected some mature stuff. There will be mentions of rape, abuse, neglect, self-harm, eating disorders, and just about everything else in that category that you can come up with. In no way do I support and/or approve of any of these things. I'm fiercely against them, in fact. But for those of you who have issues with that, consider this a trigger warning.**

**Now let's get this started. :)**

All her life, she had been afraid.

She was six when it began – the abuse, the pain, the neglect. She was in first grade when the school nurse pulled her out of class to tell her that her mother had passed away. Suicide, they told her. Drug overdose. They said it not for her comfort, but for their own. A six-year-old couldn't possibly understand the reality of depression.

Her life became a nightmare.

Every night when she got home from school, it was to find her stepfather waiting for her, rip-roaring drunk and furious with the world. He hadn't wanted her; he had wanted her mother, had even gone so far as to suggest that the woman throw her infant child to the streets so that their lives would be less "complicated" by the little girl's presence. Now the woman was gone, and it was somehow the little girl's fault. Something in her knew, the moment she opened the door on that first day, that her life was over – at least for now.

She began to doubt that it would ever begin again.

She hid the bruises well for a six-year-old girl – the cuts, the bruises; the broken ribs. Long shirts and baggy sweatpants concealed her many scars, and she learned quickly not to grimace when she moved too quickly in gym class. Every night when she arrived home, eagerly anticipating (though with fading hope) a change, the man would drag her into the house by her hair, fairly ripping out the pretty blonde locks by the roots as he yanked her through the door. He forced himself on her, threw her into tables; he hurled glasses into her face and left her tied to a chair in her room for hours on end.

She made him dinner every night, but was not allowed to eat. At first, she attempted to eat at school, but when he found out, he became livid, and forbade her from speaking to anyone or looking anybody in the eye. Music became her sole comfort; her guitar and her voice were her only companions now.

One night in ninth grade, she arrived home slightly later than usual – there had been a traffic jam, and the bus had been late. With her, tearstained and crumpled from the hours it had spent in her hand, came a note from the school nurse suggesting that she attend a weekly support group for children with eating disorders. "We are concerned with Danielle's progress in school," the note said, anxiousness clearly portrayed. The man took one look at it, ripped the shirt from her back, and proceeded to carve the word _useless_ into the skin of her ribcage.

It only stung for several weeks, but the bloodstains never left the carpet of her room.

Then in the fall of her tenth grade, the final straw came. The man found her diary – the only relic of her dreams – in which she had confessed her last and darkest secret. The wistful fantasies of white dresses and love were foolish in his eyes, and he burned the little book as she watched in tears. Advancing upon the cowering little girl, so emaciated beneath her baggy clothes, dark circles hanging below her eyes, he shouted his final words to her –_ "No bitch of mine is permitted love women; all the women are for me." _And then, taking the fire poker in his hands, he hit her with such force that she flew across the room and hit the opposite wall.

The neighbors heard the commotion, called nine-one-one. The next weeks were a blur of ambulances, prison cells, and courthouses where she was encouraged to speak to the judge, to speak against the man who had tortured her for eleven years.

She sat in silence, her head bowed, her entire body trembling. The joyful, innocent little girl was gone, to be replaced with a silent, frightened, yet somehow still beautiful young woman. The jury watched in discomfort as she stared down at her hands and refused to speak. Beneath her long lashes, tears threatened to spill from the corners of her eyes. She was afraid – afraid of them all. They all looked at her too hard for her to trust them.

At last, it was declared that her silence was enough, and the man was convicted.

She stood up, escorted from the room by a congregation of police officers, psychiatrists, doctors, and social workers, and vowed silently to never speak again.

She vowed to simply survive through the next part of her life, still hanging onto the faintly glimmering hope that when she left home, her life just might begin again. On the last day in her final foster home, she took up her guitar and never looked back from the moment her foot crossed the threshold and entered the outside world.

As she stepped off the plane in New York City, she stopped for a moment, breathing it all in. The lights and towering buildings fairly shimmered all around her, singing of new beginnings. She was twenty-two years old, broken and bruised, yet still somehow stunningly beautiful. As she drank in the sight of her new home, a shifting breeze lifted the blonde locks from her shoulders, and for once, she did not shiver.

This was a new world for her, and she found herself wondering – though she hardly dared to admit it – if perhaps, just perhaps, she could begin again.


	2. Through Swirling Storm

**Hey lovely readers! I wasn't expecting such good reviews for this story, but you surprised me! I am expecting a lot of backslash just because of the nature of it, but that's predictable. I know these chapters are infuriatingly short (to me at least) but I'm working with them as much as I can. :) **

**Enjoy.**

August mornings in New York City came chilly and bright; light breezes brushed through the avenues, skated over the treetops in Central Park. The sun shone with that sort of sparkling clarity that allows you to see everything in sight, and yet forces you to squint if you stare too intensely. The traffic was light, and the birds were out.

It was the perfect morning for Santana, who was currently clicking down the sidewalk in her best pair of work heels. Her job at the producing company had been going well recently – all the more reason for her to take a day off, but she wasn't feeling particularly lazy today. In fact, her motivation had been increased by the fact that Kurt was attempting to start a band – she didn't think she could stand another day of being shut up in the house with an over-enthusiastic Lady Hummel. For now, she was perfectly content to walk across Times Square with her caramel-iced cappuccino and paper bag full of glazed donuts.

For Dani, it was an entirely different story.

At six-thirty AM by the huge, luminous clock hanging from a tower in the square, she woke for the fifth time to the angry shouts of indignant passerby. Remaining silent as the middle-aged woman bellowed in furious tones about the growing impurity of the city – how _dare_ they allow tramps and lunatics to sleep on park benches during the autumn – Dani blinked slowly, and with baleful eyes, simply did not move. At this point, conservation of energy was crucial if she were to make it through the day. She did not even flinch, just watched as the lady ranted on and on, until a sudden, freezing hand stung sharply across her check.

With a low, whimpering cry at the abrupt physical contact, Dani dove under the mahogany bench. Beneath lay her guitar case, her only chance of survival; for the last six months, she had gotten by playing at bus stops and subway stations. It was a surprisingly successful job, but had earned her no more than enough to pay for a small amount of food at the end of each day. These last few days, after developing a strange weakness in her muscles that she could only assume to be anemia, she hadn't played at all.

Now she cowered beneath the bench at the absolute edge of the park near an alleyway, trembling with fear as a result of the unwarranted slap. Perhaps the woman had thought she was being dim, but in reality, she simply hadn't been able to move. She listened vaguely as the woman prattled on for several minutes, curling in on herself in case she was struck again. The woman bent down, prodding at her with a cane (surely, _surely_ she had something better to do with her time on such a fine August morning), and Dani was just about to scream when a cool, smooth voice cut into the ceaseless string of admonishments.

"Lady, lady, let it go . . . I'm sure you've got better things to do than yell at a poor little girl," the voice broke in easily, tone tinged with a carefree air. The woman retreated, muttering to herself in indignation as she went on her way. Once she was sure the old hag had gone, Dani allowed herself to look up.

"Hey there sweetheart," the young man greeted effortlessly, extending a hand to pull the frightened young woman to her feet. "Giving you a bit of a hard time there, was she? I'm Christopher; buddies call me Chris." Dani's darting crystal eyes flickered back and forth from the man to the small circle of what she supposed were friends that flanked him. Young men, possibly around her own age, all dressed in black leather with shaved heads, tattoos, and what looked like about fifty visible piercings.

Dani, ignorant of the ways of the world, perceived the banter as friendliness, and regarded them with gratefulness instead of mistrust.

"Thank you," she murmured appreciatively, swinging the strap of her guitar case over her shoulder in an effort to mask the obvious unsteadiness of her slender legs. The man who had spoken, Chris, smiled effortlessly, display shimmering teeth that had all been capped in gold.

"No problem, sweetheart," he crooned, wrapping a tight arm around her shoulder casually. Dani froze at the movement, her eyes slipping shut for a brief moment before opening again to show her pupils slightly dilated in fear. "Now, you look like a pretty young thing, and times are hard, we all know that – why don't you come with us?" he proposed, glancing significantly at the others when he was sure the girl wasn't watching. A short man with studded eyebrows cracked his knuckles menacingly.

At the sound, something clicked in Dani's mind, and she was suddenly aware of the danger of the situation she had placed herself in.

"Th – thank you," Dani stuttered. "B – but I – " she began to protest, desperately searching for an escape, but the grip on her shoulder merely tightened.

"Oh but darling," Chris crooned smoothly. "We _insist._" And with that, he jerked his shoulders as a signal, and the others surged forward. One seized Dani by the legs, tucking them beneath his arm and hoisting her into the air. Another moved swiftly to stuff a rag in her mouth, muffling her surprised cries for help.

Chris merely laughed ruthlessly, shaking his head as his buddies carried the screaming girl off into the darkness of the alleyway, where nobody would see or question what they were about to do.

Santana was on her way home late that night, hurrying along the edge of Central Park through the torrential downpour, grumbling to herself about the indignance of having to walk through a thunderstorm in a mere trench coat, when a low whimpering caught her ears. She halted at the entrance to the alley, squinting through the rain in an attempt to see anything beyond the tip of her own nose. She sighed. She _really_ should've listened when Rachel tried to convince her to buy those glasses. Even if they were really seven dollars just for a reading pair from the pharmacy down the block, she could use them. Maybe then she wouldn't get such awful, splitting headaches.

"Hello?" she called out grumpily, her voice echoing off the walls of the derelict apartment houses that lined the narrow passage. A scuffling, followed by another whimper. Sighing to herself, Santana shook the rain droplets from her eyes, and took another tentative step into the area. _ "Hello? _Is somebody there?_" _she probed loudly. When her inquisitions were met only by more pitiful cries, she grew curious.

She entered the alley cautiously, knowing full well to be on her guard. She had lived in this city for almost two years now, and was only too familiar with its various human dangers. The splashing of her boots in puddles echoed off the wet brick walls in the semi-dark. She had only stepped forward several yards when the whimper came again.

Santana jumped about a foot in the air, startled by the fact that she had nearly stepped on the source of the noise, and moments later knelt to the ground in shock at the sight that met her eyes.

A young woman was curled in a soaked, muddy heap on the ground against the wall, shivering and whining in a truly pathetic manner. Dark streaks of blood were smeared all down and across her clothes and skin, and her left wrist hung limp, and one of her ankles was twisted in an awkward position beneath her. She lay curled in a fetal position, sheltering her vital organs in a way that Santana recognized. She had seen this before in Rachel, in Quinn, and in Kurt, and she knew that the girl had been mistreated. She only caught a glimpse of platinum hair and a bruised, battered face before the words spewed from her mouth without permission.

"Oh my god! Are you all right?" she fairly shrieked. "What in the hell happened to you?" Instantly, she brought a hand to her mouth, covering it in shock; her words had startled the girl so that she let out a small scream, skittering backwards against the wall in a frantic attempt to escape. Her eyes were wide and frenzied, jade green, Santana noticed (not that she was paying any particular attention to details at that very moment). Almost in a panic, she attempted to stand, before collapsing to the ground with a weak cry as Santana attempted to stop her.

"Hey, hey, whoa there, girl! I'm sorry!" Santana gushed, babbling slightly in her haste to calm the frightened girl. "I'm not going to hurt you, I swear! Where do you live? Do you have a family? What's your address? Do you need help? I mean, obviously you need help, but should I call someone, or . . ." she trailed off, realizing at the sight of a slight, crinkling frown in the other's girl's forehead that she had been rambling. Sighing, she dropped her hand.

"I'm getting you help, okay?" Those captivating eyes merely blinked. "Okay?" Not even a blink this time; the blonde merely stared. Santana sighed. "I'm getting help." With a sharp intake of air, she reached into her pocket and speed-dialed.

"Berry, Lady Hummel, get down to Central Park alley 60202 as quickly as possible. I really, really need your help."

**Feedback? Review? Let me know?**


	3. These Words I Say

**Once again, I apologize for such short chapters. If you'd really much prefer longer ones, please let me know and I'll combine the next two I'm writing. Sorry for the delay. Any suggestions or criticisms - please let me know! Also, please inform me if my writing is confusing. I'm not the best at plot focus. **

"Just the kind of injuries you would expect from an attack like this," Blaine was saying as he returned from Santana's bedroom, removing the stethoscope from around his neck in a far too professional manner for what Santana was used to. "Sprained ankle, fractured wrist, as well as multiple contusions, cuts, black eyes, and a nasty blow to the back of the head that looks like she was slammed repeatedly backwards into a concrete floor. Other than that," he concluded, setting down his medical kit on the coffee table. "I'd say she ought to make a full recovery."

The reaction to his proclamation was stunned silence as Tina, Kurt, Rachel, Quinn, Puck, and Santana all stared at him in disbelief. He looked back in confusion.

"What?"

"There is no way that's all that happened to her!" Santana finally exclaimed explosively, halting her agitated pacing by the apartment window. "When I found her, there was blood _everywhere_, the poor girl was sobbing like there was no tomorrow, and all you have to give me is a sprained ankle? Santa Maria fancy pants you're a _doctor_, aren't you? Why don't you just go fix her up and – "

"Training to be a doctor," Kurt cut in quietly. Santana shot him a devil's glare.

"Whatever. What I'm trying to say – "

"I think what Satan is trying to say," Rachel cut in smoothly (Tina shot her a grateful look). "Is that you're withholding important information from us, Dr. Blaine, because a girl in that state must have sustained much worse injuries than you're explaining. So please, enlighten us." Santana grumbled to herself before tossing herself down on the couch and downing an entire glass of vodka in one go.

Blaine, nervous, turned to his fiancé for help.

"Don't look at me," Kurt responded apologetically, raising his arms in defense. "I think the Lady Loudmouth said it all. Santana's right for once – even though she did down the last glass of my expensive new vodka," he added sternly, raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow pointedly at the Latina. Santana merely scowled, and snapped her fingers impatiently at Blaine.

Blaine sighed in defeat, and sat down on the arm of the couch.

"All right, so basically, beside the bruises, cuts, broken wrist, sprained ankle, and possible brain damage, you're looking at a girl who's probably been severely abused throughout her entire life," he gave reluctantly, meeting eyes seriously with each of them in turn. "She was raped tonight by the guys that got to her, but my guess is that it wasn't the first time. It'll take about a month and a half for all of her external injuries to heal completely, but I'd say that with physical evidence of her history . . . well, let's just say that the emotional toll will be so great that I'll be surprised if she ever does more than utter one word at a time ever again."

This time, more than just shocked silence met his words. An uprising of indignant outcries and horrified sobs erupted from the group. Santana bent over, choking back the bile in her throat that had risen at the graphic mental imagery that had accompanied Blaine's words. Rachel was gripping the edge of a chair, sliding to the floor after her legs gave out. From some unidentifiable source – probably Quinn by the sound of it – there came a low, muffled cry of horror.

Santana's eyes were squeezed shut tightly; she drew long, deep breaths in an effort to get ahold of herself. She had to focus. This strange girl had been beaten to a pulp so many times, and all it took was a description of it for them all to lose it completely. She needed to do something, anything.

Blaine, seeing the desperation in his friends' pained expressions, quickly provided an out.

"Guys, listen up," he called out over the noise. Immediately, they all settled down. He looked each of them straight in the eye as he spoke, his voice leveled and stern. "Look, this girl is going to need more than just a doctor, okay? I already asked her for contact information; she says she doesn't have any. Now I don't want to impose upon Kurt, Santana, or Rachel in any way, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to." At Rachel's sound of confusion, he sighed.

"She's going to have to stay here, Rach. Maybe for a very long time," he said quietly. In any other circumstance, Rachel would have been known to raise a fuss. Yet something in the younger boy's tone stopped her, and she remained silent, merely nodding in agreement. "I'm not comfortable with leaving her here alone, so one of you is going to have to stay with her. All the time. Not necessarily be around her, but be in the apartment just in case she needs something."

Kurt looked up, staring first at his fiancé, and then at the two girls beside him. He shook his head apologetically.

"Girls, I'm sorry, but I've got to be at work for this new project," he said softly, his eyes darting back and forth between the two. "I'd love to help her out, but – "

"I'll do it."

Santana wasn't sure what had possessed her to say such a thing; the words had slipped from her mouth without invitation. However, the instant they passed her lips, she understood just how true they were. She raised her head slowly to see the entire room staring at her in amazement, from a shocked looking Quinn to an open-mouthed Rachel Berry. But she wasn't looking at them; she wasn't even completely aware of their presence.

The only thing she could remember clearly was the beautiful, battered woman on the pavement, and that pair of sparkling eyes that, no matter how many times she blinked, refused to be cleared from her vision.


	4. Update:

Sorry guys! I know you want this to be a chapter. Just letting you know that I haven't forgotten you and that I am still working on this. I've been in Europe for the past few weeks so I haven't been able to communicate. Hang in there! 


End file.
